


toy soldiers

by angry-hash-browns (naehilisms)



Series: so like,,, naruto [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Aka: big sad, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, M/M, Madara deserves to be happy, Oops, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Redemption, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Time Skips, Time Travel, Uchiha Madara-centric, as soon as I get my shit together, but not before a healthy dose of angst, cause I hate the world and the world hates me, don't ask me what's happening i don't know, injuries, or something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naehilisms/pseuds/angry-hash-browns
Summary: It’s been far too long. He knows. Time’s blurred around the edges and the fabric has long become frayed. When can he escape this hellish cycle?(Madara just wants to be free.)





	1. rook, bishop, king

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Palingenesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368603) by [PitchBlackMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitchBlackMagpie/pseuds/PitchBlackMagpie). 



> Idk man I just wanted to write hashimada angst don’t @ me

Once

 

Upon

 

A time.

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Madara Uchiha. He wasn’t happy. He was.

 

_He was?_

 

_He was-_

 

Once upon a time, Madara met a boy at a river. His eyes shone of kindness that he’d never received, kindness that he pressed into Madara’s open palms with joy and an imploring smile.

 

He was happy.

 

They held hands, ran around, spent those few hours living the childhood they’d been deprived of. They wove intricate, spiraling dreams with their voices, crossing their fingers that one day they could become a reality.

 

Those days, Madara dreamt in violet.

  


_Dreams always end._

_You wake up._

  


He woke up to red. Spinning, spinning red. He would never forget. _Could_ never forget. He often lay in bed at night, sleep eluding his longing mind, tears brimming like the memories he couldn’t seem to rid himself of, just as those stones would forever sit in the banks of the river. But, whatever you might feel, you box that up, bury it deep within some craterous chasm inside your chest because, no matter what, your clan comes first. Your _family._

And Madara was fine with that.

 

_He was not fine with that._

 

Years passed. And passed. Again and again and again, they clashed, and he felt himself growing cold, growing apathetic to his life. Metal against metal. Screams. Blood. Red. The red- it never went away. He saw it in himself, saw it dripping viscous and smooth from his splayed fingers. He saw it when he lost everything, saw how it spread, slow and steady, from his mind to his vision in glowing grief. He felt numb. War. War. Rinse, repeat. Perhaps momentarily, he’d found peace, but it fled.

 

Rest.

 

Hate.

 

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate. _Hatehatehatehatehatehate-_

 

Goodbye.

  


_Madara Uchiha is a fundamentally kind man._

  
  
  
  
  


He opens his eyes.

 

Tobirama points his sword at his throat, red eyes narrowed in finality. “Die, Madara Uchiha.”

 

He can feel their eyes on him. Their gazes mingle into one, whether in satisfaction or shock giving no meaning. Just nameless eyes staring at his cold, broken body.

 

He hears the swing, _feels_ the cold metal on his skin, when-

 

“Tobirama!”

 

Madara cracks open his eyes. He’s just tired. So tired.

 

“Anija!” The man hisses, trying to wrestle his sword out of his brother's determined grip. “Let- go!” The sword goes flying through the air with one swipe of Hashirama’s hand, and lands with a clatter at the feet of one of their clansmen. A murmur passes through the crowd.

 

“H-Hashirama!” The infuriated man yells incredulously, “What are you doing?”

 

He stops his brother with a wordless gesture before turning to Madara and saying, pain aching his in every syllable, “Madara.”

 

He doesn’t give him the kindness of a response, instead coughing rubies pitifully onto his chin.

 

“Madara, please, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

 

 _Yes it does,_ he thinks, _it’s always been this way._ “Just do it,” Is what he says.

 

Hashirama’s voice cracks, inciting many a raised eyebrow from the crowd of tense shinobi- never show weakness. Ever. Ever. “Madara,” He pleads, “ _Why?_ ”

 

“I just can’t trust you.”

Madara knows it’s not true. He knows it’s not true. He’s trusted Hashirama so much, trusted him so many times, with so many things. He’s watched it all flicker past over and over until the colors smeared into grays and his heart smeared into dust.

 

_He knows what he’s going to say. He knows, and yet-_

 

“What,” Hashirama asks, “can I do to have you trust me?”

 

These words have left his mouth a thousand times, cycled and swirled and shoved themselves out of him far too much.

“Either kill your brother… or yourself,” he orders quietly.

 

A gasp sounds around them, mocking him with its expectancy. Tobirama’s sharp red eyes widen reliably, and Madara waits for his incredulous line, then Hashirama’s kunai, then the village and the inevitable _pain-_

 

A sword flies from the dense crowd and embeds itself in Madara’s chest.

 

_That hasn’t happened before._

 

Hashirama whirls around, hair curving in a chocolatey line. His face is etched with fury, eyebrows slanting a sharp angle, mouth in a scowl, eyes aflame, like a dragon or some enraged behemoth. “ _Who did that?”_ Madara hears him roar, feeling as if there are cotton balls stuffed in his ears. He feels a faint warmth in his chest, but he can’t tell from what, the blood, or… something else.

The same blood soaking through is fingers.

Blood is wet, he suddenly recalls, and awfully uncomfortable to lie in. It’s a good thing, then, he supposes, that his vision starting to smear around the edges, and by the time Hashirama turns around to look at him with a dawning horror, his it flickers and leaves him.


	2. the worst lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and stuff? Idk man this chapter is a complete mess

There’s a hand stroking his hair.

 

There’s a hand  _ stroking his hair. _

It’s warm and gentle, the light scrape of fingers on his scalp leaving his skin tingling and sensitive. The hand starts out at his roots, planting itself in his bushy pile of hair and dragging itself through, sliding all the way down to his tips, then repeating again and again in what Madara  _ refuses  _ to register as a soothing pattern. 

Whatever it is, it slowly rouses him, the repetitive movement dragging his consciousness out little by little. Fingers slide smoothly, caressing each individual strand as a parent would a child, treating each with the utmost care.

_ Not that I would know,  _ he thinks rather bitterly.

As he regains wakefulness, Madara begins to register more things- a blanket, draped upon his supine body. Chakra signatures meandering around his proximity, rather tense in their ministrations. And-

 

He feels sick.

 

“Madara,” that tender, oh-so-familiar voice says out of the blue, “I know you’re awake.”

 

Madara doesn’t open his eyes. “As perceptive as always,” he mutters through sleep-logged lips.

 

“Madara, won’t you look at me?” Hashirama asks, tone wavering slightly. And oh, how Madara hates this.

 

He doesn’t answer. 

 

Suddenly, the quiet is wracked with a cracked inhale, and something wet drips onto Madara’s cheek. It traces a warm trail down his face and onto his neck, leaving his skin numb and his chest hurting. “Madara,” Hashirama gasps, heaving out a quivering breath, “what happened to us? Where did we go wrong?”

 

“We were never right.” 

 

He’s asked himself a lot, a lot of different times. Strangely enough, Madara’s never found a definitive answer. Sometimes it was this, sometimes it was that. In the end, they’re all nick nacks, small useless tidbits of information that he should just discard. 

Perhaps a small part of him had hoped he could make amends, fix his mistakes. Live something happy, maybe, something more than worthless. 

After all, Madara’d once thought of Hashirama as a friend. Even as their swords clashed in battle, even as blood soaked the ground in ruby red, he’d thought of him as a companion _ ,  _ treating him with respect, with confidence, with the closeness so often associated with friendship. Each metallic  _ clang _ was like a conversation, each exchange a dance of will, of a convoluted relationship between two ostracized children. 

 

Then, Hashirama had betrayed him.

 

Laying there in that craggy, dark, storm-filled valley, roses of watered red blooming around him, Madara had felt so-

 

so  _ cold.  _

 

Come the second time, he had been confused. What happened?  _ Why? _ Oh, but he had been so happy to see that smiling child on the riverbank.  _ So happy _ .

 

_ “Madara,” the boy with the chestnut hair cried, hiccuping messily as he shook his friend, “Madara, please, please, I’m sorry,” when there was no response, he knelt, wide-eyed, for a split second, tears dribbling down his cheeks, before bursting out with fresh sobs, horrible, messy tears mixing with the river water soaking through the blue cloth clutched in his hands.  _

_ Suddenly, the boy coughed, back lurching off the ground and a thin spray of moisture bursting from his mouth. He clambered into a sitting position, blinking wearily as he took in his wide-eyed companion in front of him. There were still tear tracks on his cheeks. “Hashirama?” He muttered, “Have you been crying…?”  _

_ Before he could say another word, he was enveloped in a tight hug, his friend squeezing him as hard as he could, crying quietly into his shoulder. Madara hesitated, blinking in confusion before relaxing, returning the intense hug and gently rubbing his back and sighing, a half-hearted scowl on his face. “Tch,” he chuckled softly, “loser.” _

 

A lifetime is a lot of time. Not only did Madara have enough to live out his failure of a life, he also got to think about himself. Himself and Hashirama. After too long, he’d begun to see the truth- the sad crocodile tears Hashirama shed, his deceptively kind smile, the sharp power he nursed under that foolhardy demeanor. And Madara had fallen right into his trap. 

Even now, as Hashirama drips tears terrifying in their plasticity, his heart twinges in sympathy. It’s sad how far his feelings will go to defy his logic.

 

“Madara,” He chokes, “can’t we just have peace? Your clansmen are waiting for you. They need you. Won’t you give them the rest they deserve?”

 

Madara already knows that. He senses their chakras, feels their tense pulsing as they wait for their leader. 

He can’t tell if he cares. 

 

Hashirama’s quieted. He’s realized his attempt at earning sympathy won’t work, it seems. Madara’s glad. Now, there’s just silence, only slightly permeated with their harried breaths. Seconds flow by with the speed of molasses, slow and sticky with tenseness. 

Finally, Hashirama speaks again. “Open your eyes.”

 

It’s so pithy of an order that Madara automatically obeys. He scowls at this, cursing his own incompetence. With a slight turn of his head he sees Hashirama, chocolatey hair draped silky across his shoulders. They make eye contact, brown eyes lidded and melancholy. Then, Madara notices what he has in his hand.

 

A kunai. 

 

Immediately, countless questions race, a howling maelstrom, through his head. They’re fast and loud, filling his mind with surprise, anticipation, and a crawling fear, but most of all, he feels- a palpable disappointment. 

_ There really is no way out of this cycle, is there? _

 

Hashirama raises the hand holding the kunai up. “Do you remember what you said earlier, Madara?” He asks. 

 

Madara doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He can, at the very least, antagonize his former friend. It makes him almost feel in control again. “Why did you heal me?” He returns pithily.

 

Hashirama tilts his head and gives him that questioning gaze, the one that almost looks as if he’s genuinely confused about the question. “You’re a better leader than me, Madara. You know that.” 

 

Madara’s still waiting. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but he knows that impulse so well, is familiar with the feeling of his limbs moving without him. Whenever, whatever, he’s going to stop that kunai, so there’s no point in listening to Hashirama’s monologue. He’s completely resigned to fate.

 

Hashirama sighs. “You’re not listening, are you? Well, no matter.” The kunai hand fidgets. “I just want peace, Madara. Aren’t you tired?” He bends over Madara’s body, close enough that the strands of his hair tickle his nose. “I am, old friend, I’m so tired.” His breath huffs warm on Madara’s face, and that small part of him grasps and pleads for that contact, to hug him like they used to, to feel. 

A fresh tear comes to join the nearly dried tracks. “I tried everything. I just wanted a happy ending. I guess I had hoped we’d get that drink, but alas.” Madara’s eyes widen imperceptibly when he realizes what Hashirama just said. “I guess this is our fate.” A tear drips down his cheek. “It’s time for me to rest.”

Before Madara can react- before he can so much as breathe- that sleek, gray kunai has made its way into Hashirama’s gut with a condemning shove of a hand, and that voice rings in the air, a horrible wheeze of pain followed by the sharp, uneven breaths of its owner. Hashirama is keeled over next to Madara, stately brown hair now splayed upon the floor. He clutches at his rapidly bleeding gut but keeps the knife steadfast, blood pooling quickly around him in rose and ruby.

 

Madara gapes in silence, in shock at what Hashirama just said. He turns slowly around to look at the man’s pained face.  _ What do I do?  _ He thinks vigorously,  _ what is happening?  _

 

“Hashirama!”

 

Someone’s yelling.

 

_ “Hashirama!” _

 

_ Oh,  _ He thinks belatedly,  _ It’s me. _

 

Nameless Senju shinobi come rushing in, brows scrunched in shock and anger. They take in the scene, eyes widening before turning to look at Madara with fury. One jabs her finger at him. “You! Did you do this?”

 

“Toka! Now is not the time!” Another whispers, looking at him with the same vehement glare, “We’ll deal with  _ him  _ later.”

 

“Hashirama-sama,” a third murmurs, loosening his hold on the kunai, “please let go.”

 

They take him away. Somewhere safer, with better company than Madara.

 

He sits there silently, the thin blanket still tangled around his legs. His freshly-healed wound tingles underneath his touch.

 

The tent feels unbearably small. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry


	3. blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally not posting at 12 lmao

Madara doesn’t really know how long he sits there. All he knows is that everything he thought he knew about this torturous existence- it’s a lie. Every second, every thought, every opinion he stamped and set in stone has come unraveled like a ball of yarn, the sticky strands of superfluous belief dripping through his scarred, calloused fingertips.

He feels numb. He feels numb. He feels like

  
  


Like he lost something.

  
  
  
  


There’re a lot of things Madara’d lost over the years. Sometimes he’d miss them. Sometimes he wouldn’t. Sometimes he felt like turning inside out and laying in bed until the sun set through the flimsy canvas of his tent. Sometimes he felt like ending it all, if he didn’t know that he couldn’t.

 

He sighs, an ache behind his eyelids. The voices have long since died away, but they still hang in his head, anger, disbelief, panic. He still senses them, molten balls of heightened energy that makes his chakra spike in detached sympathy. He knows what they’re saying- _Silvertongue Uchiha- Manipulative- Murderer-_ the thought of it is upsetting, makes a lump settle in his throat.

Of course, they’re all true. But, by Kami, does he want to rest.

He blinks, once, twice, slower and slower, before he collapses with all the of the fatigue not befitting a man of his age and buries himself in the covers and his own horrible raven feather hair. The blankets are _almost_ thick enough to be comfortable.

 

And oh, how peace eludes him. Every time Madara closes his eyes, he sees that knowing, sad smile. Feels the blood coating his trembling fingers. Unbidden, his mind tosses him thoughts of that horrible day, one where the blue sky turned grey with smoke and red with blood and splinters littered the ground, bodies scattered all around where Madara had stood, like fallen guardians of-

  


Of him. Of his body. Oh, his still, spread-eagled body, velvet, chocolate hair intertwined with a sick strain of red.

And there was so much red. That was the worst, having to relive that. Having to see their friendship flower and flounder, and _almost make it_ but fall short, every time, then break apart and finally die. Madara could _pretend_ he never felt something while digging his feet into the blood-soaked ground that first time he saw his best, best, friend stock-still on the ground. He could lie, and tell himself that the second, the third, the fourth time, he most definitely didn’t feel anything either.

 

Oh, how he could lie.

  


He just wants to talk to Hashirama. To talk to him and hug him and say sorry a million times and more because it wouldn’t be enough. Because it never would be enough. The whole time, he had been going through the same hell. In a world where Madara thought everyone mindless creatures, Hashirama had had to endure the same torture, or _worse,_ because _Madara_ didn’t have to kill Hashirama. He imagines being forced to drive a sword into his friend’s  gut, to hear that little pained exhale as the light slid out of his hazel eyes. He thinks, that despite the thick, dense layers of hatred he’s built over his heart, it would crack a bit. Did he ever really mean to kill Hashirama? _Not really,_ an honest part of him answers.

Maybe he feels irritated, a tiny little bit of him, at his own inability to erase himself. Or rather, his feelings. Even after convincing himself of Hashirama’s corruption, he feels guilt at the flip of a switch, with a few sentences, a few tears. Perhaps he just simply is that vapid.

 

He closes his eyes to red.

 

He opens them again.

 

He hates red.

 

___________

  


Tobirama watches his clan members carry his brother out of the tent and feels a primal surge of anger, fiery and surging that flares pins and needles in his chest. His brother was always so _naive._ Believing in every little lie that came out of a friendly face, letting himself get lured into that clinging web of trickery. Uchiha weren’t the same as Senju. They weren’t kind. They weren’t _natural._ Even now, Madara’s blasted clansmen stand swaying on the outskirts of camp with stern faces lathered in suspicion, as if _they_ are the ones who have a right to be suspicious. Tobirama has half a mind to march over there and wipe their expressions right off their faces, but he remembers what his brother told him.

 

 _“Oh, and Tobirama,” Hashirama adds, turning around with a swish of his hair, “_ please _don’t get into any squabbles with the Uchiha. We’re_ so _close to peace, I can feel it. I just… need to talk with him.”_

 

_“You read my mind, Anija,” Tobirama grumbles, “very well. I promise. Go on.”_

 

Instead, he slowly strides toward the pale tan tent lying in the middle of the makeshift complex, propped up by his brother’s wooden creations and made up of thin canvas. He cautiously slides a hand around his sheathed sword, the familiar grip keeping him grounded as he inserts a hand underneath the canvas flap and lifts it.

 

The man sits immobile in his mussed futon, blankets tangled around his legs. He stares silently at his knees, hands placed crossed in his lap.

“Uchiha,” Tobirama snaps angrily.

He doesn’t respond.

“Uchiha!” He repeats, louder. Madara groans, swiping a hand across his face and turning to look blankly at Tobirama. With a start, Tobirama sees his Sharingan, activated and swirling in his eyes and immediately takes a step back, pulling the sword an inch out of its sheath. Madara doesn’t react. “Don’t raise your voice, will you?”  he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I have a horrible headache.”

 

Tobirama remains tense and bristling, brow furrowed at the man’s seeming apathy. “Really? Is that it?” He growls, “You attack my brother and tell me about your _headache?_ ”

 

“I didn’t attack your brother. He did that to himself.”

 

“ _Under your volition!”_ He yells, “I don’t understand! How can you not care when he was your friend? Do you not have an ounce of empathy?” His hands twitch, lungs heaving out his indignation in jagged huffs. “ _I don’t understand!”_

 

“ _Who said I don’t care?”_ The man whispers.

 

“What?” Tobirama asks, squinting.

 

He doesn’t respond, gleaming red eyes sending shivers down Tobirama’s spine.

 

Tobirama scowls, hand tightening around his sword. All at once, he focuses his chakra into his foot and kicks off, only stopping when he has his sword’s gleaming edge positioned on Madara’s exposed neck. The man makes no move of resistance. “What’s stopping me from killing you right now?” Tobirama says, voice barely above a murmur.

 

“Nothing. Is that what Hashirama would want, though?”

 

Tobirama’s eyes widen, mouth pressing into a line. He hates this. He hates their situation, he hates his brother’s choices, and he hates the fact that this monster of human creation- so emotionless and streamlined- is right. His eye twitches as he swiftly withdraws his weapon, slipping it in its sheath. Madara doesn’t move, simply blinking and lowering his eyes back to his folded hands. Tobirama scowls at him one last time, a final little flash of anger at his continuous lack of apathy, before raising back to an uneasy stance and walking away. 


	4. consolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be angsty but I hate my writing uwu

Hashirama wakes up to a tingling feeling. Chakra flows smooth and numbing into his abdomen, pinpricks and needles as it soothes his wound. 

Strange. It’s been a while since he got hurt. 

He flexes his fingers, ears ringing as he hears a familiar voice. “Hashirama-sama?” 

He lifts one eyelid, then another, revealing the concerned face of one of his clan members. Her mouth curves in a frown, brow crinkled in concern and confusion. 

 

“Hitori,” He says, “What am I doing here?” His mind lies dark in murky in his head, clouded with the cover of unconsciousness. 

 

She grimaces slightly at the question, avoiding eye contact. “Hashirama-sama, do you not remember…?”

 

A lump of writhing dread lodges itself in his throat. “No. Hitori,” He implores, sitting up despite her protests, “what happened?” 

 

Then, it hits him like a boulder. 

Perhaps a boulder flung by Madara that one time, at that one place, in that one life. And oh god, Madara. Raven-haired, stoic, glaring Madara.

He’s physically thrown back, stumbling with scrambling legs and sliding his clutching hands over his face, groaning and folding into his bent knees. 

 

“Hashirama-sama?” Hitori exclaims alarmedly. 

 

He doesn’t want to be angry. He really doesn’t. He just wants a happy ending. It doesn’t have to be for both of them, either. Hashirama’s sure that if Madara built the village and lived out his  _ different  _ ending, a happy ending, they would finally be free, with or without him. After all, Madara’s a man of his word, and he hadn’t stopped Hashirama from stabbing himself with that kunai, so why would he not build the village? But now that he’s healed- it feels different. It feels like Madara won’t accept it now. He needs to talk to him. He  _ needs  _ to. 

 

“Where’s Madara?” He asks. 

 

Her look of shock turns into one of incredulousness and horror. “Hashirama-sama, are you mad? After what happened when you went to talk to him-”

 

A flare of anger jolts in his chest, and he turns to glare at her, hair whipping around at his speed. “You  _ know  _ it was self-inflicted, Hitori. Don’t talk about him like that,” he snaps. 

 

Taken aback, she raises her arms in defense. “Well- I-”

 

Hashirama raises his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose in the other, and takes in a deep breath before sighing. It’s difficult to act neutral about Madara. In battle, it’s fine- they fight together like a second nature, swords locking like two pieces in a puzzle. But when he is forced, over and over again to pretend not to care, not to have residual sentiment from his previous- lives- it gets complicated. “I’m sorry, I just-” he stumbles over his words- “I’m just strained. Strained. That’s it. I  _ need  _ to talk to him, alright? For the good of all of us.” 

Hashirama doesn’t know anymore. 

 

She stares at him concernedly for several more seconds before the tension leaves her body in a sigh, looking at him tiredly. “Alright, Hashirama-sama,” She submits, “is your wound healed?”

 

Hashirama runs his hand over his injury, just in time to feel the last of it stitch itself together. “Yes,” he answers. He stands up completely, pushing a hand out the opening of the medical tent. “Thank you.” She nods, her disapproving expression the last thing Hashirama sees before he walks out. 

It’s busy at the center of the Senju camp, all hustle and bustle, but Hashirama’s sure that the moment he steps out of there, every eye is on him. Curious, angry, confused. He tries to put on a reassuring smile, but it’s sort of difficult to ignore the fact that the news has probably spread halfway through the camp by now, and that his shirt still has a large spot of blood on it. Covering his stain with both hands, he puts up a serious face and walks through the packs of clansmen towards the lonely tent that he knows Madara is in. His urge to just see the man’s face, to know he’s there, is insatiable. He wants to just have a  _ conversation,  _ to laugh and talk like they used to, but at the same time he has no idea how. 

Then, he sees Tobirama walking towards him, a veritable storm rumbling on his features. “Anija!” He yells, “Finally! Do you know how worried I was, with you  _ stabbing  _ yourself in the-” He stops, his face twisting in an almost comical look of suspicion. “What are you doing?”

 

“Going to see Madara,” Hashirama answers confidently. 

 

“What? Are you crazy?” Tobirama yells wildly, his eye twitching the way it does when he’s about to explode, “ _ Why  _ would you  _ still  _ want to  _ see him? What are you- _ ” he stops himself halfway, squeezing his eyes shut, putting a finger up, and exhaling slowly. “Besides,” he continues after several seconds of uncomfortable silence, “Madara’s been gone for over half an hour.”

 

“ _ What?!”  _

 

“He left on his own. Snuck out while no one was looking.”

 

“Well we can’t just  _ sit here! _ Let’s find him!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “As if-”

 

“Tobirama!” Hashirama suddenly bursts out. His hair rises into the air, chakra crackling volatilely, “Listen to me! Do you think that peace will come this easy?”

 

He blinks, a bit of his exasperated expression slipping off his face. “Anija,” he says carefully, “You talk about peace and no war, and yet you never say  _ how.” _

 

For a split second, Hashirama considers telling him. Telling him everything that happened. Telling him about his past lives, how, no matter what happened,  _ it never ended _ and how Madara never seemed happy anymore. 

“I just- I just  _ know,  _ okay?” He insists, grasping at what to say, “What would you know about Madara? Everything we have ever known is  _ war.  _ At the very least, I  _ understand  _ him. Trust me on this. Please.”

 

Tobirama huffs, pouting. “You are such a child, Anija.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You better not make me regret this.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

 

Hashirama chuckles, “Yes, Tobi.”

 

“ _ Don’t call me that.”  _ He grumbles before turning around and traipsing off. “Well, come on! I know where he is.”

 

“You  _ know?”  _

 

“I’m a sensor type, Anija, I know everything.”

 

_________

  
  


Madara sits brooding high up in a tree, arm resting gently on his bent leg. He picks at the tree bark thoughtlessly and takes long breaths of the fresh forest air, not really knowing how long he’s been there, and not really caring. He’s high enough that the tree canopy disguises him from immediate view, and he’s sure it’ll take a while for them to find him. That is until, with a twinge of  _ something _ , he feels Hashirama’s chakra enter the proximity. 

Oh, and his blasted brother. 

 

Damned sensor. 

_ Well,  _ he thinks apathetically,  _ it’s not like I expected them to leave me be forever. I just sort of wish I could be alone a little longer.  _ All he really wants do is to sit here on this branch forever, mind a blurry haze, slowly filtering out all his indecision until he’s whole and clear again. 

 

“Madara!”

 

He runs a hand over his fresh scar. 

 

“Madara, I know you can hear me!”

 

Ignorance isn’t helpful, but it sure as hell is tempting to give in to it. 

 

He turns lazily, eyes half-lidded, and looks into Hashirama’s pouting face, mere inches from his. “Ignore me, will you?” He snaps, mouth angled in a purposefully exaggerated frown. He’s just as childish as he was the first time they met on the bank. How does he do it? 

 

_ Madara doesn’t feel the same.  _

 

The expression slides off Hashirama’s face, and he huffs. “Look. Can we talk?”

 

“What could there possibly be to talk about?” He mutters. 

 

“The village.”

 

He must think that Madara isn’t aware of their hell. And who is he to correct him? “Our pipe dream?” He breathes, feigning stupidity. 

 

“Yes.” He climbs onto the branch, squatting next to Madara. “Aren’t you tired of it all, Madara? Isn’t it time to have a little love to go with the hate? Please, build this village with me.”

 

_ Love,  _ he thinks.  _ Strange choice of words.  _

 

It’s been so long since he made a decision for himself. Everytime he takes Hashirama’s outstretched hand, he ends up falling, living his life out with his  _ evil  _ red eyes and doing his evil deeds. The alternative, however, is unbearable. A life of solitude? After all, Madara, at heart, is a bad ninja. 

But now that he has a choice, can he do better? Can he make the right decisions? 

 

A tear slides down his cheek. Surprised, he touches a finger to it, smearing it and looking down at his damp finger. 

 

Hashirama peers at him curiously. “Madara?”

 

Is this how disconnected he’s become?

 

Another travels down, and another. He lets out a shaky breath. 

 

Hashirama looks at him softly, face etched with sympathy. “Oh, Madara.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

His hand hovers wavering above Madara’s for a second, and, with no protest, it clasps it firmly, giving a comforting squeeze. “Sorry for what? I’m your friend. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

 

It might be, Madara thinks as he sits there for god knows how long, shaking with silent sobs, but really only because Hashirama’s with him. 

 

He feels pathetic. 

  
  
  
  
  



	5. my heart is buried on a battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of makes more sense if you read my one shot, hangman

Madara’s foot twitches he reads over the lengthy treaty, a pen waiting ready in his hand. It’s been so long since he’s made a conscious decision. 

 

“Madara…” Hashirama murmurs, his hair brushing against Madara’s ear. “You know I’m here for you, right?”

 

“Don’t say that,” he responds tensely, fist curling up into a ball. “We were fighting but a day ago.”

 

He chuckles softly. “It doesn’t matter! We could still be fighting and I’d still care about you.”

 

“Oh. That’s…”  _ irrational, he should say. Dangerous, perhaps. Stupid.  _ “...sweet.”

 

Hashirama beams. “I try.”

 

Madara sighs wearily, shaking his head with a huff. “Just leave me to this, Hashirama.”

 

The smile fades off his face. “...Alright.” 

 

After he walks out of the tent, Madara turns back to the long paper laid out in front of him. The lone lamp in the tent casts long shadows around him, its flickering flame dancing hypnotically. 

_...in order to prevent further conflict…  _

This timeline is different. He can tell; that unknown force that he always felt lurking behind his back isn’t there anymore. He’s been able to make his own choices, and this time is definitely different from the others. 

He could rebuild his life. 

_...the Senju and the Uchiha will create a ceasefire…  _

Madara rubs his face, yawning widely. 

_...and end all enmity between them….  _

The purple rings under his eyes seem to have gotten worse. 

_ …so that a shinobi village can be established.  _

The fire crackles comfortingly, warm glow soothing his tired eyes. If he could fix his mistakes, recover himself from that downwards tumble, he could stop himself from hurting so many people. 

If he ruined it once, though, who was to say he wouldn’t a second time?

.    . . .. 

 .. 

.. . .

The lamp flickers warmly. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Madara sits alone in the cave.  _

_ It’s dead silent, the only sound the quiet dripping of water from the boundless ceiling. Drop by drop, bit by bit, the water taps the ground, and bit by bit the stone erodes.  _

_ The silence echoes. It’s deafening, filling his ears with unuttered promises and his mind with static. Madara wants to scream, to talk, to laugh, even if only with himself, but he can’t.  _

 

_ He can’t.  _

 

_ In his rubbing fingers, Madara holds a small, bruised flower. He lifts it to his line of sight. It’s simple, just a deep red tinged with insides of black. A message, perhaps. A reminder.  _ I’m sorry. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Something changes; time passes, days ticking away in the pulsing ringing of silence. The walls melt and reconstruct around him, pressing closer and closer with angry whispers. He clutches the rest of his lonely throne a little tighter. A lamp flickers.  _

  
  


_ And oh, finally, Madara’s eyes bloom bloody with purple. Purple rings. Power- it flows, latent and volatile through his veins. It invigorates him, fills him with strength. It’s perfect.  _

  
  
  


_ So why does he feel so empty? _

  
  


_ A solemn wooden face lays still in the depths of the cave, eyes closed and dead.  _

_With tottering steps, Madara walks up to it, silent, hands shaking at his creation. So this was the power of the Rinnegan…_ _He looks at its blank expression, its grainy, wooden hair. Its features are uncannily similar to those of their once-living counterpart. Slowly, he runs his hand over its cool face, over closed eyes and cheekbones and that little wrinkle he’d developed over the years. It reminds him of decades ago, alone in a bloodied battlefield, reminds him so tenderly of what he knew so long ago. It’s there, it looks real, but it’s not enough. He’s shaking now. A wrinkled hand comes up to cover wooden eyes. “Don’t look at me,” he whispers. He sets his forehead on the wooden figure, a tear running down his cheek. “How do you always manage to do this to me, Hashirama?”_

 

_ Colors bleed, dripping and blotting like watercolors under his brush, like Izuna just knocked the cup of water over the canvas. Hashirama disappears from between his fingers, swept away on the wind. Madara sits alone, and red and black flowers blossom around him. He’s surrounded by them and their horrible reminders. They whisper, the poisonous hum of disappointment building in his ears like a clog in the river until it reaches a deafening tone, ringing and bouncing around his head with tinny clangs. He slaps his hands over his head and screams, color flashing in erratic shapes and colors under his eyelids as a hand slides through his and sunset colored cliffs worm their way into his mind. “I’m glad,” comes a whisper.  _

 

_ “I know.” _

 

_ His hand loosens and breaks away. “I’m sorry.” _

 

_ “What do you-“ _

 

_ Blood runs down his memory, a tiny smile run down and ruined by snaking tendrils of red. It soaks the ground.  _

 

_ NO- _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Uchiha.”

 

Madara snaps awake, gasping as a bead of sweat meanders down his cheek. The tent is filled with warm light, the lamp beside his head put out. Outside, he hears the birds twitter cheerily, heralding the beginning of a new day. He numbly stares down at the desk under his folded arms. His head was laying on top of the peace treaty, and the small bottle of ink beside his elbow is knocked over, creating a small puddle of black on the paper. 

 

“...Hashirama told me to check up on you. I didn’t think you fell  _ asleep,” _ He hears Tobirama sigh, “but I guess that’s to be expected.”

 

Madara doesn’t respond. He blinks rapidly, trying to rid himself of the red coating his mind. 

 

“He wants to talk to you.”

 

“So soon?” Madara mumbles. “At least let me finish signing this…” he fumbles the pen and dips it into the inky pool, scribbling his name in chicken scratch handwriting. “...alright.”

 

Tobirama squints. “Alright?”

 

“Alright.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


What are you supposed to say to someone after you see them break down in front of you? How do you act, knowing that they’re constantly putting up a persona and hiding behind a facade?  _ Especially  _ if it warps your entire perception of their character? 

Tobirama is a simple man. He enjoys things cut and dry, analyzed and stored away. He likes to think he sees things the way they are. 

Madara: sometimes a man, mostly a monster. Ruthless, cruel. Hashirama: foolhardy, kind, determined, and protective. 

It isn’t difficult to label people from the outset. Perhaps what’s difficult is developing your understanding further. He just can’t absorb it. He just can’t take in that image of Madara and Hashirama, cradled in that towering tree. He’d  felt so strangely out of place, watching Madara’s tears slide down silently in Hashirama’s arms. 

He stares warily at the Uchiha, collapsed over the table. His hair is strewn all over, the bottle of ink they gave him knocked down and creating pools of black all over the place. Should he treat him as if that event never happened? Is that what he wants? 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Understanding people is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know where to end the chapter so I just ended it on tob’s pov. That’s why it’s sudden, if it is. Sloth, amirite?We’re reaching that part of the fic where I descend from the high of relentlessly hurling angst to actually requiring a cohesive plot, which I do not have. Oops?


	6. suspicious occurrences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well isn’t this fun?

Hashirama’ll admit it. He’s not the same person he once was. Of course, his memory’s gone a bit fuzzy, but he recalls the naïveté with which he lived, firmly entrenched in his beliefs. He was cheery and faithful, disregarding caution and believing in second chances. Not to say that he isn’t now- to lose that side of him would be horrible. He’s just matured, found a loftier goal. He’s expanded his mindset. 

He wants a happy ending. 

 

Hashirama’s jolted out of his thinking by a hand lifting the canvas of his tent. He perks up slightly as Madara shuffles in, a sheath of paper rolled in his pale fingers. 

“Madara!” Hashirama greets. 

 

The man nods tensely. “You wanted to see me?”

 

Hashirama sighs quietly, placing one hand on top of the other. “I just wanted to check… are you okay?” 

After all, Hashirama’s not the only person who’s changed. Whether he is aware of their existences or not, these lives have taken a toll on Madara too. 

 

Madara bites his lip. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh no, don’t be!”

 

He shifts slightly. “I’m just… not looking to talk about it right now.”

 

“...oh,” Hashirama says lamely. They pause, awkwardness thick in the air. “That’s alright.”

 

Madara shifts. “...anyways,” he walks closer and sets the roll of paper on Hashirama’s table, “I signed this.”

 

A great smile blooms across Hashirama’s face as he rushes forward with a childish enthusiasm. “The treaty?” He asks excitedly. 

Madara’s mouth flutters for a split second. “Yes.”

 

Can Hashirama help being happy? After all, it’s the first step to rebuilding their lives. He leans forward and cups Madara’s hands with his own. “I’m so-“ He trips over a gleeful chuckle that tumbles out of his mouth, “I’m so, so glad.”

 

Madara sighs. “I know.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


For something that he’s experienced numerous times before, Hashirama seems awfully giddy to unite the clans. He grasps Madara’s cold fingers and shines down on him, yapping incessantly, and Madara can only concentrate on his blooming tendrils of his chakra, wrapping around him and filling him with calm. To think that he took the man for granted- his warmth, his passion- it makes Madara want to chastise himself or pull Hashirama in close and spill everything he’s holding in himself out. The urge to just  _ speak _ is almost overwhelming, to just confess and run away and live his life out in some place in the middle of nowhere with nothing in his soul. 

But he can’t. 

He can’t imagine Hashirama not thinking that he can’t be redeemed, can’t imagine Hashirama knowing that he’s evil and corrupted, even if he is. He can’t. He just can’t. He wants Hashirama to believe in him, and maybe if he imagines enough, Madara can believe in himself too. 

 

So he just stands there and pretends he doesn’t care. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The sun gleams down upon the congregation, shining through the scarce clouds and smiling upon the crowd gathered under two emblems, around two people. 

Madara slowly extends his hand, looking a beaming Hashirama in the eyes. 

_ I’ll fix this.  _

They clasp. 

Around them, their two clans erupt into tumultuous cheering. Naori cracks a lopsided grin, while Hikaku yells loud enough that he’ll be complaining about his sore throat later. Hashirama grasps Madara’s forearms and pulls him into a tight hug. It’s nice. 

Madara buries his head under Hashirama’s chin and squints into the open blue sky. The sun cuts into his tired eyes, all bright and glaring. 

A tear dribbles down Hashirama’s cheek, and he laughs happily. “Gosh, I’m so stupid.” 

Madara hums, drowning out the commotion and concentrating on the hum of chakra under Hashirama’s skin. How can someone be so godly but so human at the same time? 

 

His world smudges around the edges as he lays there in someone else’s arms, melts like slush under spring sun. 

Just as he wonders if they’ve embraced for too long to pass off as a spur of the moment thing, his neck explodes with a piercing pain and he reflexively jumps and brings a hand to his throbbing neck. He plucks something out of his skin. It’s thin and cold in his hands. 

_ A senbon?...  _ he thinks surprisedly. 

Hashirama lifts his head slightly, and Madara hurriedly flicks it into his sleeve. “You alright?”

“Yeah…” Madara’s chakra is churning now, and he can sense someone perched in the trees in the distance. They’re already speeding away, and Madara puts a marker on their chakra signature before turning back to Hashirama. “Just- just a bug.”

 

The crowd rages on. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Hashirama and his clan leave him to himself with promises of beginning planning the next day. With nothing to do, Madara slinks off into the woods, chakra simmering underneath his skin. Suddenly, he feels it- that chakra. Madara whips around to see the intruder above him, perched calmly on a tree. They’re wrapped in a deep gray cloth, eyes empty and blank. “Who are you?” He hisses. 

 

They laugh. “Don’t take it personally,” the person's voice is thin and reedy. “But I don’t think I can allow this alliance to happen. If I kill you, it should shake things up a bit, shouldn’t it?”

 

_ No. He will not let this happen.  _ “Oh?” Madara murmurs darkly, a ball of anger beginning to writhe in his chest. “You really think you can take me?” His hands are already flying, fingers wreathing together in rapid fire signs, and he rears back, hot embers stinging in his throat- 

 

And nothing comes out. 

 

He stumbles back, staring shakily at his hands as he suddenly realizes the fatigue coursing through his body. 

The scoundrel cackles at Madara’s shock. “Not normally, no. I had to take a few precautions. I’ll bet you expended chakra tracking me down, and the poison on my senbon is gnawing away at you. I had this all planned out,” They smile menacingly. “So you better scream.”

 

Madara steps away from his advancing foe and he backs into a tree. Angrily, he attempts to activate his Sharingan, but his leg gives a horrible, gut-wrenching throb and he collapses onto the forest floor. The person unsheathes a sword. 

He twitches, fingers digging deep into the dirt as he groans. It’s getting bad now. Sure enough, it’s consumed most of his chakra, and now it courses through his body, shattering him with pain that rings in his very ears. 

_ How did I not notice the poison? _

He clenches his teeth.  _ No! I’m not going out like this! _

The sword swings. 

  
  


He catches it in a shaking hand, the blade unyieldingly digging into his skin. Blood pools in his hand as he shakes with exertion, the tip of the blade inching closer and closer to his exposed neck. It slits a deep cut into his hand, and he cries out in frustration. He can’t do this. Is this how he’ll die? How pathetic.  _ Not like this! Not when he has a chance to  _ fix things!

 

_ NO! _

 

The sword is kicked with such force that it is flung deep into the forest, accompanied by a streak of brown hair as Hashirama skids to a stop between them. 

 

“Hashirama-” Madara breathes.

 

“Sorry,” Hashirama mutters, eyes shadowed over as he looks at that person in front of him, “I’m a little late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you didn’t hate it ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you liked 😔👊✌️


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